Tuesday, February 28, 2017

On Sunday, I went to the prayer vigil organized by the
India Association of Kansas City, to honor Srinivas Kuchibhotla, Alok Madasani, and Ian Grillot, who were
shot in an Olathe bar last week. As everyone knows, Kuchibhotla was killed when a white man came into the
bar, yelled, “Get out of my
country!” and opened fire.

That is reality. And we can’t wish away the deeper
reality those actions illustrate. Yes, the killer no doubt is disturbed, but he
was not speaking for himself alone. Just yesterday, I received an email from
a well-meaning friend, an email with photos of dark-skinned young men wielding
machine guns. The argument was about limiting refugees’ access to the United
States, and the caption read, “These children are training to kill your
children.” That kind of language – language that presumes a malevolent heart in
people who look different from most of the people we know – it infects our own
hearts. It gives people permission to inch just a little further, each time we
hear it, toward words and actions that turn human beings into avatars of spiritual
darkness. And it’s no accident that people in a white culture find it easy to
ascribe that spiritual darkness to dark skin. We have centuries of perceived
darkness to overcome.

Sunday's service of prayer and remembrance incarnated
a contrast reality. So many people came to the suburban conference center that
the crowd had to be managed in three sections – hundreds within the ballroom,
hundreds in the foyer, and hundreds more outside pressing toward the open
doors, struggling to hear the voices of peace over the PA system inside. Those
voices were powerful in their quiet proclamation – Hindu and Muslim and
Christian and Sikh and Jew, all praying for the same things from the same
divinity of Love. The call to strive for peace, healing, and reconciliation
knows no religious boundaries.

The religious voices then gave way to those who know the
need for healing more personally. Alok Madasani, recovering from his wounds, stood to speak of his dear
friend and how a drink after work turned into cold-blooded murder. But Madasani shunned bitterness and moved
toward healing, just days after being shot and watching his friend die. “It was
rage and malice in another’s heart that killed my friend,” he said. “That’s not
Kansas, or the Midwest, or the United States. It’s not what we know.” He then
described how a stranger in the bar took off his shirt and stanched Madasani’s flow of blood, likely
saving his life. “That’s what I’ll cherish,” he said. “That’s why we made this
country our home. We just ask for tolerance of diversity and respect for
humanity. I hope I’m not asking too much.”

That’s my prayer, too – that Madasani is not asking too
much. I pray that we will speak and act to “respect the dignity of every human
being,” as our Episcopal Baptismal Covenant puts it. And I pray that each time
we find a moment to speak or act against the presumption of darkness, whether in
public events or intimate conversations, we will seize that opportunity for
witness.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

Today, as we celebrate Scout Sunday, we
welcome the boys of Troop and Pack 16, as well as their leaders and parents. Let me take a moment for a shout-out to a man
who’s had to deal with two of the most demanding roles I can imagine: Dave Banks.
One of those demanding roles has been serving as our Troop 16
Scoutmaster, a job of great sacrifice from which he is stepping down at the end
of this month. The other, even more
demanding, role has been getting stuck with following in Morgan Olander’s
footsteps. Dave has given countless
hours in his service to the Scouts of Troop 16, their families, and the family
of St. Andrew’s – so please show him your appreciation.

So, as we mark Scout Sunday, I want to be
clear in what it is we’re celebrating.
We’re not honoring a community partner, some organization we allow to
use the building each week. We’re raising
up one of the primary youth and family ministries of our church. I draw that distinction because Scouting is about
formation – from a Christian perspective, it’s about forming followers of Jesus
in how they represent Jesus to the world.
And the same could be said about the Girl Scouts, too. Scouting isn’t just campouts; it’s
discipleship. And that journey of
growing as a disciple, of growing more and more into “the measure of the full
stature of Christ” (Ephesians 4:13) – that’s a journey God asks every last one
of us to be taking.

A bit later today, six of the boys of
Troop 16 will become Eagle Scouts. As
you know, it’s the pinnacle of Scouting achievement. But, as I’m sure we’ll hear in the remarks this
afternoon, it’s also just the beginning for these boys. Their lives will change the world – certainly
in small ways, maybe in big ways, too. So,
although these Scouts will earn the fruit of their labors this afternoon, they’re
definitely not finished with the work God has given them to do. And that illustrates what may be the best
characteristic of Scouting, and certainly something Scouting shares with other
ministries that form us as Jesus’ disciples:
Scouting is aspirational. There’s
always another merit badge to work on; there’s always a further rank to
attain. As the grown-up Eagle Scouts
among us demonstrate every day, there’s always a greater difference to be made,
a greater benefit to bring to the world and the people around you.

Aspiration runs through the readings we
heard this morning, too. In Deuteronomy,
we hear Moses trying to explain to the people of Israel that, when it comes to
God’s Law, the stakes are so much higher than they imagine. The Law is not simply a list of rules and
regulations for people about to move into a new land. The Law is God’s path of blessing for a people
set aside to be a blessing to all the peoples of the earth. Following the Law is the way wilderness wanderers
become a great nation, how wayfaring strangers become a light to the world. As Moses tells his people, following the Law
is the great choice God asks them to make, in that time and place. I have set before you two options, the Lord
says through Moses – the way of life and prosperity or the way of death and
adversity. It’s just that stark. This path of blessing, for yourselves and for
the world, is not something you can simply sample as it suits you, a path of convenience. This path of blessing brings you life, and it
brings the light of God’s life to the
world. So, Moses cries to his people, choose
this steeper path. “Choose life, that
you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord your God, obeying him, and
holding fast to him,” Moses says. Aspire
to be the beloved community, living out nothing less than the reign and rule of
God.

That kind of aspiration runs through the
Gospel reading this morning, too. This
is the part of the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus is teaching something that
might make us good Christians stop short.
We like to think about Christianity replacing the Jewish Law with the
good news of grace – that God’s salvation can’t be earned, only gratefully
received. True enough. So following the Law isn’t something we do – but that’s not because the Law’s
intentions missed the mark. Actually, Jesus
takes the Law of Moses and raises the bar even higher. “You have heard that it was said to those of
ancient times, ‘You shall not murder,’” Jesus says. “But I say to you, that if you are angry with
a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.… You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall
not commit adultery,’” Jesus says. “But
I say to you that everyone who looks at [someone else] with lust has already
committed adultery … in his heart.” (Matthew 5:21-22,27-28) To me, we miss the point if we focus on what
Jesus means by the “hell of fire” (5:22), the consequences that come when we
miss the mark. To me, the point is where
the mark lies.

The kingdom of God, the beloved community,
is about always aspiring to love more. For
example, to name one of the elephants in the room that comes out of this
reading – hear what Jesus is saying about divorce. Clearly, Jesus is not a fan of divorce, and
you can find that in other Gospel accounts, too. But what he’s saying here isn’t about
judgment for people who find themselves in the tragedy of relationships broken
beyond repair. What he’s saying here is
that the minimum requirement of the Law just isn’t enough. For that time and place, there was some love
in that Law about divorce. It said a man
couldn’t just abandon his wife if he didn’t like her anymore; he had to write a
certificate of divorce, which relinquished his property claim on her and allowed
her to remarry rather than wandering unprotected as a social outcast. But for Jesus, that’s not enough love. He’s looking to protect the woman, the
powerless one in the relationship in that time and place, from being tossed
aside on a man’s whim. My point is that
Jesus looks at the Law, at the minimum requirement of love, and he says, “You
know, that’s not enough.” Living
faithfully isn’t about whether we check the boxes of legal requirements,
whether we do just enough to pass the test, or what might happen to us when we fail, as we surely will. Living faithfully is about recognizing that
God raises the bar because God wants for us as much love as we’re willing to
choose. Each day, God sets before us the
choice to be a blessing. So “choose
life,” God says, “that you and your descendants may live.”

What does that look like for us, in our
present moment? Well, here’s one way I
believe God is calling us to aspire to love more and love better, to go beyond
the minimum requirements of the law. It
has to do with how we see our opponents, those who disagree with us; and the
ways our small, daily actions bear that out.
In a tweet the other day, the president called people who oppose him
“haters.” Really? By the same token, on Facebook I saw posts from
people on the other side that called people they disagree with “sexist fascists”
and “thieves.” Anymore, we throw around demeaning
language as if words don’t matter. But
they do. And it’s not just the potential pain those
words inflict on others. Throwing around
demeaning language to describe other children of God forms us to see those
other people as something less than
children of God. And it forms us, as a
nation, to live far below the heights where the “better angels of our nature”
dwell, as Abraham Lincoln said. Whether you
see it on a protest sign or in a presidential tweet, any message that denigrates
those who disagree with you has no place in the kingdom of God. That’s not how we follow our baptismal
promise to “respect the dignity of every human being.” Because every human being is a child of
God. Every
human being – maybe especially those
with whom we most deeply disagree. As
Paul writes in the reading from First Corinthians this morning, “As long as
there is jealousy and quarreling among you … you are behaving according to
human inclinations” (3:3), not aspiring to grow more and more into the measure
of the full stature of Christ. Instead,
choose a different path. For we “have a
common purpose,” Paul says. “We are
God’s servants working together” (3:8-9).

The six boys who will become Eagles today
didn’t have to choose the path they chose.
They didn’t have to work toward one merit badge after another. They didn’t have to freeze through winter
campouts. They didn’t have to learn to
lead their peers. But for them, the Scout
Oath and Scout Law pointed them down a path of aspiration. If they were truly going to do their best to
do their duty to God, and to their country, and to the other human beings
around them, then they had to choose the steeper path, the path toward
Eagle.

The call to us from God’s Word says very much
the same thing: If we’re going to do our
best to do our duty to love God and love neighbor, to live out the Baptismal Covenant,
then we’ve got to take the steeper path, too.
We’ve got to choose to be better than we have to be. We’ve got to choose be a blessing to the people
we encounter. We’ve got to choose life,
that we and our descendants may live.

In our readings today, we hear about truth
that just doesn’t make sense. In First Corinthians,
Paul is trying to explain the logic of the Cross, the astounding claim that God
chose to go about saving humanity by coming among us as a human, the One who
then completely empties himself of everything the world understands as power
and wisdom. What seems to be the worst
possible outcome – Jesus’ brutal death – turns out to be the way to show the
world God’s power and wisdom. With God, new life comes where you’d least
expect it, redeeming the most horrifying thing you can imagine.

And then, in the Gospel reading, we heard
Matthew’s version of the Beatitudes – again, the world turned upside down. In the moment, Jesus’ followers could easily
look around their society and see who was blessed. Blessed were the wealthy, for they have more
than enough. Blessed were the religious
authorities, for they had privilege and respect. Blessed were the Romans, for they had power
and might. You didn’t have to be a rabbi
to understand who was blessed. But Jesus
was teaching them something different: No,
he says, things aren’t always what they seem.
Blessed are the broken in spirit, for theirs is the true kingdom.
Blessed are the meek and the powerless, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled with God’s own
righteousness. (Matthew 5:3,5-6) Those
who seem hopeless, aren’t. Instead,
Jesus says, blessing comes where you’d least expect to receive it – to those at
the end of their rope.

So, what does it mean to be blessed? That word rings our ears after this
reading. Some versions of the Bible
translate that word from Greek into English differently. Sometimes, you see it given as “happy,”
which, to me, is even harder to understand.
If you’re broken in spirit – to say nothing about facing sinking poverty
or experiencing physical hunger – you’re not
happy. But, Jesus says, you are blessed. In fact, you are a “privileged recipient of
divine favor.”1

It’s also important to note that Jesus
isn’t conferring a new state of blessing when he speaks these beatitudes, nor
is he giving these classes of people some power they didn’t have before. He’s in the role of the color commentator in
the broadcast booth, calling it like he sees it. The poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the
persecuted, the pure in heart – they simply are
blessed. And congratulations to them,
for God promises that their sorrow
will not stand. When God’s beloved
community is realized in all its fullness, when the earth once again mirrors
heaven as it was in the beginning and ever shall be, then the folks now suffering
will participate in God’s blessing in all its fullness.

As I say these things, I have to take note
of the news from the past couple of days.
I don’t pretend to be an expert in public policy related to refugees and
immigration. But I hear Jesus, in today’s
reading, looking out over the people listening to him – the poor, the persecuted,
the people in mourning – and observing how blessed they are in God’s eyes. And I can’t help but think about those who
will be caught up in our president’s order to exclude refugees from seeking
refuge in our nation of immigrants.
There is much that is dubious in Scripture, much that requires a razor’s-edge
approach to interpretation – and then, there are the clear imperatives. In Deuteronomy, a book that shares the
perspective of the Israelites just before they took Promised Land away from the people living there, Moses
says to God’s people, “The Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords … who
executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the stranger, providing
them food and clothing. You shall also
love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
(10:17-19) I hear the same imperative
from Jesus in today’s Gospel reading:
“Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy,” he says.
(Matthew 5:7). I know we’re afraid of
potential terrorists. I get that. But being afraid doesn’t relieve us of the
obligation to show mercy, particularly to those who seem to meet Jesus’
criteria of blessing. As he says,
“Blessed are you when people revile you, and persecute you, and utter all kinds
of evil against you falsely…” (Matthew 5:11).
I grant you that those we are now turning away are not being persecuted
for their faith in Jesus. But I would
invite us prayerfully to consider under what circumstances Jesus would exclude
the stranger seeking to come among us.

So, let’s recap: The law of Moses calls us to love the
stranger. Jesus tells us that blessing
comes to the people we’d least expect to receive it. Paul tells us that salvation comes from the
God who chose to die a horrific, criminal death in order to call us home. And this morning, in our worship at 10:15, we
will live out the astonishing mystery that we get to take part in this amazing process of dying and rising again by
joining the blessed in baptism and living as blessings ourselves.

Today, we’ll baptize four new followers of
Jesus who couldn’t get to church for baptisms two weeks ago because of the
ice. In this rite and in their baptized
lives, these children will be taking the same journey the children of Israel
took when they passed through the Red Sea.
They’ll be taking the same journey Jesus took when he passed through the
grave and gate of death and walked away from an empty tomb. They’ll be taking the same journey we took in
our own baptisms, and the same journey we take again and again in our own
lives. As followers of Christ, we pass
through the waters of death time after time, taking on the forces of Pharaoh
and the seductions of self-centeredness, and we march on through to the other
side. With Jesus, we rise from death as
new creations, our lives made more than they once were, our hearts blessed by
relationship with God, and our hands empowered to be blessings to the people
God loves.

We find ourselves among the blessed when
we join God in the blessed life. And
that blessed life looks a very particular way.
It’s a life of downward mobility.
It’s a life of stooping into love.

The Psalms say that God “stoops to behold
the heavens and the earth” and “takes the weak up out of the dust and lifts the
poor from the ashes” (Psalm 113:5-6, BCP). Paul tells us that God chose the way of the Cross
intentionally, shedding all power and “taking the form of a slave” (Philippians
2:7) to show that “God’s weakness is stronger than human strength” (1 Corinthians
1:25). Centuries earlier, the prophet
Micah saw the same truth – that God’s way is the path of humility, and that
what the Lord requires is not fancy sacrifice but simply “to do justice, and to
love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God” (6:8). We are called to stoop down to behold God not
only because God is our sovereign but because, astonishingly, God stooped down first – creating us for
the joy of it, relating with us for the love of it, then dying and rising again
for the victory of it, defeating sin and death to open the doors to eternity. We walk that way of salvation on our knees
because God got down on God’s knees first.
As the story goes, an old rabbi once said to
his student, “In olden days, there were people who saw the face of God.” The young student replied, “Why don’t we see
God’s face any more?” And the old rabbi
said, “Because nowadays, no one stoops so low.”2

The exclamation point on this mystery is
that we are called to stoop into the
relationships that mark God’s way of blessing.
We do it through joining in the apostles’ fellowship, the breaking of
bread, and the prayers. We do it through
resisting evil and continually turning our hearts in God’s direction. We do it through living and telling our own
story of Good News to others. We do it
through seeking and serving Christ in all people. And we do it by respecting the dignity of every human being, no matter where they
come from. Those are the promises we
make in baptism – the roadmap of the way of the Cross, the job description of
the blessed.

These can seem like abstract promises, a
lovely vision that may seem impossible to achieve. But think about how God stoops into
relationship with us. In Christ, God
chose to make redemption personal. God’s M.O. is not to work in generalities but
in specific times and places, linking real people with other real people, and changing
the heart of one real person at a time.
Our call is the same. None of us
is called to love the world. Instead,
each of us is called to love the person in front of you.

So, give it a shot. Each day this week, take someone
seriously. Listen to someone’s
story. Share some of your own story. Link someone with something life-giving. Invest yourself in the call to love small.

1.Danker,
Frederick William. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian
Literature, 3rd ed.
Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2000. 611.